


Remembrance

by Oblitatron



Category: Digimon Adventure
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 12:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18152057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oblitatron/pseuds/Oblitatron
Summary: Hiroaki reflects on the impact the Odaiba Incident a few years back, especially for the one who didn't come back.





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

> Digimon did a good job with family dynamics and having characters struggle with the aftermath of traumatic experiences, but there were some pieces I wanted to fill in. This is one of them.
> 
> (Rated general because if the audience can handle the cartoon violence of Digimon Adventures, they can handle a character smoking)

The smoke from his cigarette curled gently in the night air, though Hiroaki knew there was nothing gentle about the tar in his mouth and the vapor in his lungs. He should quit, and he knew it, but after all these years, the faint stinging in his nose and thick taste in his mouth was as much of a reward as the illusion of calm and control.

He sighed and studied the end of the stick, idly tapping off the ash that clung to the end. Things _were_ calm and he _was_ in control, as much as anyone could be in their lives. He still had his job. The last monster attack had happened years ago. The kids had come home safe and without their Digimon companions, and as much as Hiroaki’s heart went out to them for having to be separated from their friends, he felt unmistakable relief at the thought of their paths never needing to cross again.

It hadn’t stopped him from trying his best to be there for the kids, Matt and T.K. especially. But unlike the eight of them, he and their parents didn’t have the luxury of time when it came to coming to terms with what it all meant. One second their kids are standing in a pillar of rainbow light, the next the sky is clearing, the strips of the Digital World fading away, and the kids re-appeared with empty hands, teary eyes, and sunny dispositions that didn’t quite match the smiles that failed to meet their eyes.

He didn’t know how the Kamiya’s or Izumi’s handled it. He didn’t know how Nancy did. There had been several late nights when he was halfway through calling her before hanging up the phone and resting his head in the palm of his hand, or against the wall. His job didn’t allow for much of a social life, so it wasn’t like he’d see the Kamiya’s or Takenouchi’s at any soccer games, or at T.K.’s parent-teacher meetings. Matt was long past the age where he had to ask his dad to stop coming; it took the pressure off of Matt and gave Hiroaki more time to work.

More often than he tried calling Nancy, he thought about going through the phone book and asking whoever was available out to lunch. But he felt that would be presumptuous, and as much as he was worried about the kids, he didn’t want to cross any lines, familial or otherwise. After all, Matt _seemed_ like he adjusted to normal life fairly quickly. Who was Hiroaki to assume the other kids weren’t capable of that, or that their own parents couldn’t be there for them?

It wasn’t as though Matt _hadn’t_ talked to him. Told him about the Dark Masters, his first trip to the Digital World, cleared up some of the confusion about Myotismon. And towards the end of the first year, Matt confided to the sink full of sudsy dishes how much he missed Gabumon. Hiroaki didn’t know what else to do other than pretend he didn’t see Matt’s tears join the dishwater and sling an arm around his shoulders. Matt didn’t want his uncertain assurances or pity, and Hiroaki was relieved when Matt momentarily leaned his weight against him, though soon after he wiped his eyes and excused himself to his room. He couldn’t help but wonder if Gabumon was ever allowed to see Matt cry.

He rubbed his eyes and took another drag. Matt had adjusted well, but he had to hear from T.K. about the friends that didn’t make it. Gotsumon and Pumpkinmon. Chuumon. Piximon. Whamon. Leomon. Hiroaki knew there was more he wasn’t told, and he also knew he’d simply never understand what they went through. But when Matt began to smile easier, and more often, he thought maybe it was okay. He wouldn’t push Matt to dredge up anything just to satisfy his own curiosity and insecurity. As time passed, some of the weight dissipated, and once in a while Matt would offhandedly mention gleams of insight into his experiences; the time he and Joe worked in a restaurant, Tai and Izzy trying their hand at karaoke, camping out each night under the stars or in an occasional, and bizarre, wayward bus trolley or sphinx.

Hiroaki looked up at the skyscrapers and sent a silent thank you to the Digimon he’d never met for helping keep his sons safe. Then he sent another one to the Digimon he had. The one neither Matt nor T.K. named in their list of fallen comrades. The one that, in spite of all other logic and reasoning, made Hiroaki realize he didn’t have any control in any of this.

He still remembered the moment he realized he wasn’t coming back. For all of his support and confidence, Hiroaki had never felt worse in his life then when he let Matt and T.K. go up to the roof as he himself ran to the ground floor. But it was the moment when they touched the ground again, justifiably elated of their victory, that Hiroaki felt as if that same ground dropped out from under him. Every kid and their partner had returned, but one absence was all he needed to realize how differently the battle could have ended.

There was no time to mourn, not with the rise of VenomMyotismon and then the kid’s departure and subsequent return. It was only in quiet moments, mostly at the studio once everyone else had gone home, that Hiroaki let his optimism fade and his thoughts roam back to Wizardmon. He did his best to bury the pang in his heart each day whenever he crossed the fifth floor steps, where he had been told to turn back. He tried not to flinch whenever he wandered to the top floor for some fresh air.

He tapped more ash off the end of the cigarette and watched the pieces float downward. He wasn’t going to ask if the kids weren’t going to bring it up. Regardless of whether or not they should bury their darkness in silence, Hiroaki thought that if the kids could do, he could weather it as well. It’s not like unhealthy habits were new to him.

Why Wizardmon had left such a strong impression on him, Hiroaki didn’t know. He had admired the Digimon’s dedication, sure, but did the brief exchange of words, barely passable as a conversation, and a helping hand up some flights of stairs really warrant this degree of sorrow? He didn’t even know him.

But he _did_ , part of his brain always argued. He’d known enough, which was that Wizardmon wanted to help and Hiroaki could only hope that he had succeeded.

And maybe that was it. Maybe he knew the other Digimon had accomplished their goal to contribute towards Matt’s and the others’ victory. That knowledge, paired with any lack of realness to their existence outside of Matt’s and T.K.’s stories, let Hiroaki accept their passing as one of valor and nobility. They had stories. They were remembered. Their names still sounded as proof of their existence.

Hiroaki tugged at his already loosened tie, letting the chill air nip at his skin so he could take a break from smoking. He didn’t blame Matt or T.K. for what they chose to share and withhold. Neither one spoke much about what happened on the roof of the studio, and maybe there was a good reason for it.

Eyeing the remains of his cigarette, he thought back to that day. His manic confidence that he could unravel the mystery on his own. The intent to keep Matt and Gabumon out of harm’s way, only to have to rescue one of his friends an hour later. The realization, upon seeing Matt ride up to the studio on the back of a gigantic beast with several others in tow, that the situation was so beyond his grasp that all he could do was play tour guide to an obvious destination.

He sighed and dropped the cigarette, snuffing it out with his foot. He hadn’t been able to fight. He hadn’t been able to heal. He hadn’t been able to understand, even when so much of the problem was in the space he lived at more than home. Ultimately, his only contribution had been letting Matt and T.K. go, with the hopes his support could sustain them, and aid one injured Digimon up a staircase while the rest ran ahead.

_You looked as though you’d never had anyone lend you a hand in your entire life_ , he thought, breathing in deeply to capture the last traces of smoke. _Though maybe I’m remembering wrong._ The hesitation before Wizardmon accepted, the pause before he let his hand settle into Hiroaki’s, the stiffening of his shoulders when Hiroaki wrapped an arm around him, the limp in his gait after he insisted he was fine so Hiroaki wouldn’t stray farther into danger than he already had… _I don’t know what happened, but I’m not stupid. I owe you my children’s lives. Maybe we all do. I don’t know who you were or what kind of life you lived, but I hope I made those couple steps a bit lighter for you._

Hiroaki turned his face to the sky and inhaled again. Only instead of cool air tinged with the stain of tobacco, he swore he smelled damp leather, fresh straw from the fields, and, though he had no idea way, chili sauce. In the second the scents lingered, Hiroaki was no longer on an unpaid break during unpaid hours, but standing in the stairwell eight floors down.

Then it was gone. The visual, the scent, and the weight Hiroaki hadn’t realized he’d piled on his shoulders and in his heart for the past several years. Lifting the muscles in his jaw had become easy, and he chuckled aloud even as tears gathered and fell freely from his eyes. Still laughing, he sniffed and wiped the tears away with his thumb, not because he wanted them gone, but so he could prove their presence with more than one sense.

The temptation to remain, to try to catch the phantom scent again was tempting, but Hiroaki knew better than to be greedy or risk his constitution. The night was only getting colder and he suddenly had a desire to return home, to take comfort in knowing Matt would be asleep in his own bed right down the hall and that T.K. and Nancy were only a phone call away.

Leaving work was easy when he realized he no longer dreaded his return, as was returning home when he realized he could take a night off to catch one of Matt’s shows after all. He only took one detour, a quick stop to a 24/7 convenience store to pick up a bottle of green chili sauce. Who knew, he thought as he pocketed his change and got back into his car. It might be nice to have around.


End file.
